


And a Chicken in a Pear Tree

by Carrieosity



Series: Sugarplum Ficlets [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Card Games, Christmas, Christmas Party, Crush at First Sight, Drinking, Drinking Games, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other characters in background, SPN Holiday Mixtape, Tattooed Castiel, white elephant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 00:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrieosity/pseuds/Carrieosity
Summary: White Elephant (noun): 1. A possession entailing great expense out of proportion to its usefulness or value; 2. A party game where gifts are exchanged during festivities. The goal of a white elephant party is usually to entertain rather than to gain.When Dean showed up at the end-of-semester holiday house party, he could never have predicted meeting the tattooed, gorgeous man of his dreams. He'd never have imagined that he'd end the evening laughing so hard his ribs hurt, wrapped up in a story nobody would believe had actually happened the way it did. But what he really could never, ever have anticipated was the chicken.





	And a Chicken in a Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is crack, but it's the best kind of crack: the kind that actually happened. No lie, this story is based on a real party I attended in college, and nobody ever believes that I'm not exaggerating when I tell it, but I swear, it's the truth. (Well, except for the end, which I wouldn't know. But you'll see.)

 

 

Dean wasn't drunk, but he was so lightheaded from laughing that he thought he might as well have been. Charlie, on the other hand…

"Don't forget the gingerbread," she slurred, lifting her left hand to snap her fingers but remembering at the last second to switch to her right hand. With the unused left hand, she reached over to pinch the butt of the person sitting beside her, then lifted her shot glass and threw back the contents with a shudder. Raising her head, she cried, "Mao!" and slammed her last playing card, the queen of diamonds, on top of the discard pile. "Bow down to your fucking _queen_ , bitches!"

It was a good party. More than good, it was practically glowing with the holiday spirit. Heh, holiday _spirits_. Maybe he was a little drunk. The eggnog was delicious, though.

Somewhere in the crowded house, he could hear Sam shout-singing along with the carols that were cranking through a sound system that had been designed for thumping bass, not the crooning of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra. This was Sam's first big college party, and he'd apparently decided to ignore Dean's warning about colorful beverages that smell and taste like childhood innocence. He'd learn, just like Dean had. Five years and a degree and a half later, Dean could still remember the horror of purple vomit the morning after his first house party.

Sam was lucky, though, because as far as college parties went, this was definitely one of the better ones. There were actual snacks, for one thing, and not just random bags of stale chips that somebody found while rummaging through the host's kitchen. Sure, the decorated sugar cookies were pornographic (he tilted his head to puzzle out what that elf was supposed to be _doing_ ) and the chocolate candies had all been infused with hypodermic needles full of vodka, thanks to some helpful pre-med students, but it was food. On a table, even. With napkins!

"Ruby, did you steal these napkins from your work?" he yelled over his shoulder, noting the suggestive line drawings of breasts in the corners. Ruby didn't hear him, dancing as she was on top of the subwoofer.

Dean shrugged and snagged a cookie, then made his way to the empty loveseat he saw in the corner. Charlie, flushed with victory and booze, was reigning over her court in the middle of the impromptu dance floor, arms waving and a crown of tinsel drooping over one eye. Dean could see Benny, his roommate and fellow music grad student, dancing a two-step with his long-time girlfriend—entirely out of place, but they'd been practicing to dance at their spring wedding, so it made Dean grin. A handful of art undergrads, whom he knew only from the occasional pop-in for free food at their exhibits, were weaving a conga line in and out of the crowd, shoving and being shoved as they kicked and shimmied.

"Well, that's anatomically unlikely," a deep voice said from close beside his ear. Dean startled, nearly dropping his cookie. Turning, he found himself nearly nose to nose with another man; their faces were so close, he had to blink for a moment to get his eyes to focus, but even then all he could process was the most captivating set of wide, sparkling eyes he'd ever seen. It was too dark in the room to tell the color for certain, but he thought they were deep blue. Most of that color, though, was eclipsed by the extremely dilated pupils in the center.

The man nodded his head toward the sugar cookie in Dean's hand. "If it were actually that big, even if that elf was a grower and not a shower, I find it hard to believe he could walk without tripping."

Dean blinked again, pulling himself back into the present moment. He looked at the cookie to judge for himself. "Or find pants that would fit," he agreed.

The man shrugged, waving a tattooed arm in a dismissive manner. "Pants are overrated, anyway. Not sure I'd wear any myself, if there weren't certain societal rules in place requiring them."

Dean found himself in total agreement. Pants were definitely not worth the hype. And not just because the idea of the man beside him going pants-free was suddenly the top item on his Christmas wish list. _Dear Santa, I've been a good boy. Please bring me a naked hot guy with ink…_

"Castiel," the other man said, holding out a hand that was manicured in something dark and glossy. His voice sounded like rough sex felt, and Dean needed a moment to realize that he was supposed to say something in response.

"That's, uh, your name?" he said, feeling thick-headed as he took the offered hand and gripped it. It was warm and strong, and he had to make himself let go when the shake ended.

"Sometimes," Castiel said enigmatically. Dean nodded, as though that was a normal thing to say. Maybe it was. He might have been more than just a little drunk.

"I'm Dean," he said, remembering that introductions were supposed to be bi-directional. Castiel grinned widely.

"As though I didn't already know that," he said in a lazy drawl, and before Dean could ask what the hell that meant, another voice shouted over their heads.

"Okay, White Elephant time, people! If you brought a wrapped gift, get your asses over here!" Gabriel, the pop culture Ph. D. fellow who was hosting the party, was much louder than his short stature would indicate. He climbed on top of a coffee table (Dean assumed that since it was Gabe's house, he'd know best as to whether the rickety table would support him or die trying) and waved his arms for attention. "I threw some extra items on the table, in case we had people who forgot, and I think...twenty-two, twenty-three...yeah, if you wanna play, just come. We run out, I'll just grab something from my room."

"Well, now I'm terrified," Castiel whispered loudly, leaning into Dean's shoulder. Dean snickered. This close again, he could smell the sweet scent of pot wafting from Castiel's lips, and he shivered.

The music, now warbling about a rodent's ardent desire for a hula hoop, was turned down, and Gabe clapped his hands, a look of wicked glee on his face. "Okay, so everybody know the rules? When you came in, I scrawled a number on your hand with a Sharpie, and it should still be there, unless you were a jackass and spilled beer on it. Anybody a jackass?" A thin, high voice in the back yelled something Dean couldn't hear, and Gabe rolled his eyes dramatically. "Look around this shithole and tell me how personal hygiene is even relevant. Washing your hands before eating, I _swear._ You go last, dude. Anyway! Whoever has number one—" a girl with a blond ponytail squealed and bounced "—apparently Becky, will pick a gift and open it. Then number two can either take another gift or steal hers."

"Hey!"

"But then _you_ can pick a different one, Beckster. The person with number three can pick a new gift or steal from either of you, and if they steal, then the victim can either steal or pick, and on and on. At the end, you'll get to go one last time, Becky, so it just keeps getting wilder and wilder. Everybody got it?"

No, they didn't, not with the median blood alcohol level hovering somewhere around 0.2. "Just fucking pick a box," Gabe groaned. Becky hovered over the table, deliberating, until Gabe huffed loudly. She ripped it open and giggled madly.

"A bodice-ripper romance!"

"Something tells me she's not going to have to guard that too closely," Castiel said, twisting his lips in distaste.

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "Could be worse," he said. "Everybody needs bathroom reading material." Castiel conceded the point with a lazy smile.

The next two gifts were each picked from the table and unwrapped without ceremony: a bag of pepperoni rolls from the gas station and a marching band hat from three years prior. "Nice," Dean said with a smirk. There had been a five-dollar limit placed on the gifts, so everybody had needed to get creative with their sources for purchase, hitting up convenience marts and thrift stores. Somewhere in the pile was his own contribution of a handful of skin mags, and going cheap on those had meant choosing from some shudder-worthy options.

Someone stole the pepperoni rolls, kicking off a flurry of theft. A threadbare teddy bear was a hot item for a while, changing hands almost as fast as the large pack of toilet paper. ("No, _that's_ what everybody needs in their bathroom," Castiel teased.) Dean lost track of the presents flying around; his number was pretty high, since he and Sam had gotten there fairly late, and he was far more interested in how Castiel was steadily shifting nearer and nearer to him on the loveseat. Their thighs were now pressing together, warmth burning through denim, and the scents of weed and incense were practically giving Dean a contact high. Or maybe that was just Castiel himself having that effect, with his purring whispers and fingers creeping along the cushion behind Dean's lower back.

"What the fuck is this?" Benny's voice boomed in a molasses-thick drawl. He lifted an item from the box in his hands, hoisting it above the heads of the crowd. It was a white ceramic chicken, gloriously tacky. A burst of laughter echoed from the group, as people pointed and cheered the terrible gift.

"That…" Castiel gasped, giggling. "That is perfect. I _need_ it."

"You what?" Dean turned to stare in confusion, but just then Gabe called out number twelve, and Castiel was jumping to his feet.

"That's me, and that is _mine,_ " he proclaimed, stalking toward Benny. He plucked the chicken from Benny's hands, cradling it to his chest. "My chicken!" Benny looked stunned for a minute, then shook his head.

"It sure is," he told Castiel, then turned to re-steal the pepperoni rolls from a pixie-haired girl in a "School of Criminal Justice" sweatshirt. She gasped in mock outrage.

"Okay, fine, but…" She turned, thinking, then reached for the chicken.

"Ah, ah, ah! No stealing the same gift more than once per round!" Gabe scolded.

"You never said that!" she complained.

Gabe frowned, holding up his hands. "Isn't that standard? I thought that was common knowledge."

Meg, who Dean wasn't even sure was an actual student, snorted loudly. "As though you care about rules, anyway. What's more fun, standard procedure or holiday anarchy?"

Gabriel pursed his lips and waved a hand. The chicken was plucked from Castiel's arms, and he squawked indignantly. "My chicken!"

"Mine now!"

Fuming as he sat back down with his new gift, a boob-shaped coffee mug that was yet another purloined item from Ruby's place of employment, Castiel turned to stare at Dean intently. "It's on, Dean."

_How did we get here?_ Dean wondered. He'd keep wondering that, because somehow, mysteriously, that brief exchange managed to imbue the glossy white chicken with a much higher level of esteem than it had warranted before that. Victor, from the football team, stole the chicken from the criminal justice student, and then it found its way into the hands of Gabriel himself, who looked as though he was trying to puzzle out the appeal. He didn't get much time to try, though, before Charlie grabbed it.

"Yoink! My chicken!"

"Number eighteen!" Well, that was Dean. He stood, took one look at Castiel's pleading face, and knew what he had to do.

"Sorry, Charlie," he said, grinning sheepishly. She started to pout, but then, glancing over his shoulder in the direction from which he'd come, her eyes narrowed with delight.

"True love's chicken," she said softly, for his ears only. "Go get 'im!" Dean blushed hard as he fled back to the loveseat, bird in hand. Meanwhile, Charlie, who was absolutely the best friend in the world, decided to help out a little more, reaching for a wrapped object that didn't pretend to be anything but a bottle of liquor. "Score," she called, "and nobody better steal this from me!"

They had a few minutes reprieve, with the next few exchange subjects having taken the bait, but eyes were already beginning to glitter in their direction. That chicken wouldn't be in Dean's possession for long. Castiel fidgeted.

"We've got to do something drastic," he hissed into Dean's ear. His fingers gripped Dean's sleeve tightly. "Are you with me?"

_Maybe I'm_ very _drunk_ , Dean decided, because, hell yeah, he was. That chicken wasn't going anywhere but home with them. Um, with Castiel. Him. Not _them_ , because they weren't a _them_ yet, and where that "yet" came from, he wasn't—

"Here, take this," Castiel passed him the box with the boob mug, taking the chicken and shoving it under his tee-shirt. "Now stall, and meet me out back as soon as you can." Just like that, he was slipping off the loveseat and through the door, disappearing into the shadows like a goddamn ninja.

"Where's the damn chicken?" Criminal Justice's friend was glaring at him, hands on hips and blond hair tossing. Dean smiled weakly and handed her the box, which was blessedly blank on the outside.

"And I'll take the booze," he called, snatching the bottle from the guy holding it. "Gabe, you got a bottle opener?"

"Hey, don't be drinking that until the game's over," somebody yelled.

"I'm not, I'm just…" Dean waved a hand in a vague gesture that could have meant anything, then stumbled into the kitchen and toward the door.

"Hey!" a voice cried. "This isn't the—"

A hand reached through the doorway from the darkness beyond and grabbed Dean's arm. He squeaked in surprise, almost falling, and then he was being almost dragged across the yard. A low hedge separated Gabe's property from his neighbors, and both Dean and Castiel jumped over it, stumbling and laughing.

"Come on, Cas, come on!"

They sprinted between houses, through an alley, and reached the next street, hearing angry shouts behind them, searching. The White Elephant game had turned into a heist, or a kidnapping, and Dean was going to take _so much shit_ for this tomorrow, but he didn't care. He was having the time of his life.

"What now, Thelma?" he panted trying to catch his breath as they jogged along the sidewalk. "Benny will totally catch us if we go to my place."

"Likewise," Cas said, grinning. "Well, not Benny, as I have no idea who that is. Gabriel, though. He's my brother."

'Your...Gabriel?" The idea of Castiel and Gabriel being related in any way, let alone brothers, was startling enough that Dean stopped running, and Cas had to yank on his arm to get him moving again.

"Half-brother," he amended. "Same father. I've been living in his attic since my building got flooded. So, no, we can't hide out at my place, either."

"Well, I have a thought," Dean said, hoping Benny wouldn't think of it, too. "Turn left at this corner."

It wasn't a bad plan, after all. Ten minutes later, Dean and Cas were sitting against the wall in the sound booth of the auditorium of the music building, Dean's keys having allowed them access. The safety lights offered just enough illumination for them to see each other's victorious smirks as they passed the bottle Dean had almost forgotten he'd been carrying with him the whole time.

"Well, you did it," Dean teased. His phone buzzed angrily in his pocket, as indignant threats from Gabriel, Benny, and even Sam warred with congratulatory messages from Charlie. "You got your chicken."

" _Our_ chicken," Castiel corrected. He held it in the light, turning it from side to side to admire it. "It's not quite a partridge, and this isn't a pear tree, but I like the principle of it."

"True love's chicken." Cas lifted an eyebrow at him, and Dean bit his lip and wanted to slap his own face. "Just what Charlie called it. Because she's a very strange person, who I've never met in my life."

Cas winked, letting the bad lie go unchallenged. "I see. Either way, then. On the first day of Christmas, my…" He paused, a smile playing on his lips, and waited for Dean's response.

_Maybe I'm a little drunk. Or maybe Santa got my letter. What the hell, it's the holidays._ Dean reached out and put his hand on the chicken, holding it between them, and they both grinned into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> We never found out what happened to the chicken from our party; I was one of the folks left behind in the house, comforting my fiance's roommate's boyfriend (::counts on fingers to check relationships:: ...Yeah, okay, that's right), who was completely stoned and bereft. "They stole my chicken. My chicken!" 
> 
> Moral of the story: Always put guards on the doors when the gift exchange starts. You just never know.


End file.
